


not yet broken (but just bent)

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gift Fic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Targaryens won at the Trident, but Rhaegar Targaryen perished along with Robert Baratheon. </p><p>A promise between brothers holds the realm together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not yet broken (but just bent)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enchanted+princess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Enchanted%2Bprincess).



> Because I am an author of my word....

i. The swift current of the Trident threatened to carry him away, but Daeron gritted his teeth and matched on, paying no mind to the icy bite of the water. He strode towards his struggling brother. Robert Baratheon was raining blows down upon with his heavy war hammer.

It was only he struck the oldest Prince in the chest that the younger brother allowed a mournful yell past his lips and ran all the faster. But Robert brought the hammer down once again, breaking through armour plate. Blood and rubies sprang free and fell into the tumultuous river. Daeron stumbled upon a rock and fell into the water farce first. His hands grabbed at rock and sand.

Steel cut his fingers, but feeling the weapon, Deron ignored the pain enough to grab the sword and pull it up. He broke through the surface of the water. But it was too late. His brother had fallen.

Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen.

The second born of the King struggled for breath and looked at the one who had murdered his sibling. The Stag was bent over the broken body of the Dragon Prince. Despair twisted his heart within his chest. The young Daeron gathered all his rage and hate and with it struck forth, tearing through water and wind and ultimately through flesh.

The Lord of Storm’s End had not expected the blow. He looked up into the twisted face of the youth.

And from his watery grave the Dragon Prince said but one word.

“Lyanna.”

ii. Oswell held the heavily pregnant woman in his arms as Arthur walked before them with a lit torch in his hand. Behind, Gerold Hightower’s heavy footsteps could be heard, as an echo, a ghost. Lyanna Stark was still weeping, her face hidden in his shoulder, her sobs muffled.

Her grief seemed unrelenting, much like the waves of the sea crashed against stone ridges again and again, despite being deflected time and again. What could be said to her to soothe her? Oswell could think of nothing. She had gambled, playing at the highest stake, and she had lost. She has lost home and heart and family.

Outside the small cart waited, the horse before it kicking the dirt softly, as if impatient to start walking. Oswell placed the lady down carefully, covering her with a cloak.

The moon was high upon the sky, shining down upon them.

“Are you certain you do not wish us to come along?” their Commander asked, looking upon the weeping woman.

Arthur shook his head. “Nay, this best we have a few days’ difference.”

“Come, Lady Lyanna,” Oswell tried to calm the woman, “think about your child and cry no more.”

Startled grey eyes glanced at him. The twin pools shone with strangled grief. But she wiped away her tears and nodded her head slowly. She held one hand out, gripping the hand he offered in return. “I thank you.”

Nodding his understanding, Oswell stepped away from the cart. And so, Arthur and Lyanna left the Tower of Joy. 

iii. Ashara held the young woman’s hand, watching her face twist in pain. A pang in her heart prevented her from looking away. Not too long ago she had been in the very same situation. “Come now, do not give up,” she encouraged softly. “You must push.”

Lyanna moaned in pain, her hand tightening its grip around Ashara’s. “I cannot,” she spoke through gritted teeth. Her breathing came in shallow gulps. She tried to sit up, but nAshara gently held her down. “Let me see,” Lyanna pleaded.

“Nay, you must not look,” Ashara assured her. “But gather your strength and push again.

At the end of the bed, the midwife grunted softly. “Push now, lady, and push hard,” the sour old woman instructed.

Lyanna struggled to follow through. Ashara swept back tendrils of dark hair from her face, after which she took a small wet rag and washed away the beads of sweat that coated her forehead.

It took much effort and equal coaxing but in the end, Lyanna Stark delivered her child into the world much to the relief of all present. For the labour had gone on and on until even Ashara had begun being fearful.

Yet the babe greeted the world with a lustful cry, testing the lungs the gods had given no doubt. Ashara though of her own babe, dead and buried, as the child was placed in Lyanna’s arms. Tears filled her eyes at the sight of mother and babe. To think it could have been her.

“A son, my lady,” the midwife said.

iv. Daeron with cold eyes upon the rebels. “You are hereby pardoned of all crimes,” he said in a strong voice so all gathered in the hall may hear, “and declared innocent by the crown. In good faith we restore to you the lands that had been previously stripped.”

Lord Arryn and Lord Stark knelt first before the young King. Daeron knew not whether to be disgusted or delighted. He continued to gaze upon them and tried not to think of the face of his brother as he lay dying in those last moments of his life. Instead he thought how to honour that one last wish, for in Daeron’s mind the single word had taken epic proportions.

Elia Martell stood near her uncle, her delicate features caught somewhere between resentment and pain. Daeron wondered whether she mourned his brother or the fact that Kingship had been taken away from her son. It mattered not, of course. It had been agreed upon by all but Dorne that Daeron Targaryen should assume rule after the mysterious death of King Aerys. 

“Your Majesty,” Lord Stark spoke, “there is still the matter of my sister.”

“Your sister, Lord Stark,” Daeron returned with much inflection, “is beyond my reach at the moment. When she will appear, you shall be first to hear of it.”

There were some fools in the crowd who thought that the war which had taken place had been fought for a woman. Daeron dearly hoped Lord Stark was not among them.

v .Stannis Baratheon looked grimly upon his King and liege. “You cannot mean to take her for your Queen,” he protested.

“My lord Hand, I am not asking for your permission to wed Lady Lyanna. I am, instead, telling you that I am crowning her as my Queen.”

“But Lord Lannister,” Stannis attempted to warn him.

“Tywin Lannister shall have to make do with the betrothal offered to him for his son.” The King stood up from his seat and walked to the window. He looked outside. Starfall was truly amazing. He could happily remain within its walls. “He wanted an alliance with House Targaryen and he has one.”

It was perhaps the height of luck that his mother had finally borne a living daughter. Had Daenerys Targaryen not been born when she had, Daeron feared he should have had to wed Cersei Lannister or some rot of the sort.

As it was, the fairest maiden of the land had been wedded to the Dornish House of Martell. Daeron dared not think too much upon why Twin Lannister had accepted the alliance with Dorne at last. It mattered little other than the fact that Cersei was out of the way.

“The lords will protest.” Stannis was a marvellous Hand, but at times Daeron wished to fling him out a window.

“Let them, my lord. In the meantime, see to it that the betrothal of Viserys to Arianne Martell is signed by her father.” He waved away his helper, turning back to the view presented through the window.

vi. Her back was turned to him and she was weeping. Daeron clenched his fist into the thin blankets covering them as his bride cried. He had wedded what seemed to be more a corpse than a woman. Yet for all that he’d been assured that Lady Lyanna was in good health. But what was more she could produce children.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She perhaps missed her son, the boy she had left in Dorne in the care of Lady Ashara Dayne. The other had sworn the child was hers, sired by a lover she’d taken at the tourney of Harrenhal, but Daeron knew better. Still, he hadn’t publicly questioned the claim. It would create only problems. Instead he made sure the child lacked nothing.

Taking pity on his new bride, Daeron wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side. Lyanna shifted slightly, her whole frame going riding. After a few moments of peace, she relaxed and pushed closer into him.

“Why are you so kind to me?” she questioned softly.

“I promised,” Daeron replied. It was not love. It was not pity. It was duty, a duty born out of affection, true, but duty nonetheless. It was the duty Daeron carried in his heart towards a brother. “He spoke you name right before–“

“Pray do not speak of it, Your Majesty,” his wife interrupted, turning around in his arms to face him. “It is enough that you showed me kindness.” 

vii. She bore him a son within the first year of their marriage. As homage, Daeron decided to name him Rhaegar. Upon hearing of it, Lyanna had smiled softly at his, her countenance mellowing. A strange sort of melancholy had touched upon her features.

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” she whispered the name against the top of her son’s head.

Daeron gazed at the babe. “He looks it,” the proud father claimed. His Queen yielded the child to his arms.

She watched father and child, two silver haired creatures shining in the light of day. “Your Majesty, I shan’t forget the kindness,” she promised her husband.

King Daeron merely nodded his head in acknowledgement, too engrossed in watching his firstborn’s arms flail. The child gurgled and moved about against the restraints of his swathing cloth. It should have been Rhaegar’s own son, Lyanna thought, though not bitterly.

Her silver Prince was gone and in his stead she’d gained a King. Daeron was a good man and a good husband. And Lyanna thought that while her heart did not beat wildly for him, as it had for that Prince who had played his harp for her, she could still claim to hold him in deep affection.

Besides, another Rhaegar had stolen away her heart once again. Daeron gave her back the child. “Thank you, wife.”

Lyanna rocked the child in her arms. “There is no need to thank me.” Rhaegar caught a strand of hair in his fist and pulled on it. The mother gave him all her attention.

viii. Jon Sand hid behind hid behind Lady Ashara’s skirts even as Lyanna beckoned them forward, Rhaegar perched upon her knee. The child looked so much like a Stark. Lyanna wondered if it would ever cross the mind of any man that the child did not, in fact, belong to any of the male Starks.

“Lady Ashara, how good of you to come visit,” the Queen noted, making her voice soft and calm, though she wished nothing more than to taken her other son in her arms too. “And how have you brought with you? Let us see who it is, shall we, Rhaegar?”

“My son, Your Majesty, Jon Sand,” Ashara said, a small smile upon her face. “Jon, do come out and greet Her Majesty and His Grace.”

The small boy’s head peeked out. Lyanna smiled at him encouragingly. She stood up, placing Rhaegar on his feet and knelt, so the difference in height might be reduced. “Look, Rhaegar. Come meet Jon Sand.”

The Prince listened dutifully to his mother and took a step forward. Jon too, having found his courage, came to meet the Prince. He bowed clumsily and sweetly as only a child could.

“Is he going to be my friend?” Rhaegar questioned of his mother.

“Ask Jon, my love,” Lyanna answered, stepping slightly backwards.

“Well,” the Prince demanded, “are you going to be my friend?”

Jon flushed violently. “Aye, Your Majesty,” he stammered out.

“Good. Then I too shall be your friend.” Rhaegar looked at his parent. “Mother, may we go out to the yard?”

ix. Daeron kissed the worry from Lyanna’s brow. “My Queen, it does you no good to fret.” His advice was met with a small sigh from his wife as she cradled her second born. Berengarya Targaryen looked at the world through stormy eyes, her tiny mouth opened in a yawn. “And how is my precious Princess?”

“Fussy,” his wife responded. “She will not go to sleep no matter what I do.” Taking her from Lyanna’s arms, Daeron walked with her to the window. The Queen watched them with mild interest. She could see that the King had begun speaking to the child and before long, Berengarya’s eyes were closed, heavy eyelids dropping.

“How is it that you manage to do it every time?” she could not help asking.

“’Tis simple, truly,” he laughed. “I have found that speaking to Beregarya about taxes, investments and Westerosi economy puts her to sleep like nothing else.”

The explanation stole some laughter even from her.”How very enlightening, husband. I shall strive to learn something to the economy then, shall I?”

“Only if you wish to fall asleep yourself, wife.” The girl was passed to the arms of her mother. “I have secured the hand of Margaery Tyrell for our Rhaegar.”

“Good,” Lyanna nodded, having been the one to insist upon the marriage. “She is the perfect match for him. And she will be a good queen, of that I have no doubt.”

“As always, I leave such judgement to you,” Daeron bowed to her will.

x. Rhaegar looked upon his father with a smidge of curiosity. Daeron beckoned his son forward. “Come, read this,” he instructed, pointing towards one of the graces in the crypt.

Kneeling, Rhaegar brushed away the dust. “Rhaegar Targaryen, son of Aerys the Second of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Rhaella Targaryen, his faithful Queen.” The young man blinked up at his father. “This is the grave of my uncle.”

“And what do you know of your uncle?” the father asked, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“That he died fighting valiantly at the Trident,” was the offered reply. 

Daeron had thought long and hard about whether or not to tell his son of the past. Lyanna had refused to speak of her son’s namesake, nor did she ever mention Jon Sand in conjecture with his true father. “This life, you will one day learn, is very complicated and seldom as we would wish it to be.” He helped the Prince up. “I should like to tell you a bit about your uncle and the battle which claimed his life.”

Rhaegar nodded his head. “I should like to hear about him, father. I have long been curious.”

Together they walked out of the crypts and into the main hall of Baelor’s Sept. Daeron led his son outside. “I began,” the father started, “with a prophecy, as many other stories do. Your uncle had heard of the Prince that was promised as many other Targaryens had done before him…”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now I'm going to go and try to get the image of Lyanna and Daeron out of my head. I need some mind bleach...
> 
> PS. For those benevolent souls that wish to bring to my attention that I should probably quit writing: I understand that the believability of the plots is not exactly topnotch, but as not all of us can be Dostoevskys, I humbly beg your pardon. You needn't let me know, as I am already aware of the issue.


End file.
